


It's a Mess, It's a Start

by larkscape



Series: Tell Me How to Break This Fever [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (with maybe a little bit of plot), First Time, Glove Kink, Hand Jobs, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Nipple Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Welcome to the Madness (Yuri!!! on Ice)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 12:44:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12059235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkscape/pseuds/larkscape
Summary: It wasn’t like Yuri hadn’t noticed before, though. Otabek had been watching him with speculation is his eyes since they first saw each other across the hotel lobby Wednesday evening and the scrutiny had only escalated since, particularly after Yuri showed up at the club last night. And when Yuri asked — all right,demanded— that Otabek join him in the exhibition skate, Otabek had given in without even the slightest hesitation, and his fevered expression during the performance left no room for doubt. No one wasthatgood an actor. Yuri was sure he’d read this right.Ninety percent sure.After the GPF exhibition, Yuri knew exactly what he wanted, and what he wanted was to get his hands on Otabek.





	It's a Mess, It's a Start

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1 of [NSFW Yurio Week](https://nsfwyurioweek.tumblr.com/): First Times
> 
> This event gave me the just kick in the pants I needed to finish this thing. Thanks, mods!
> 
> While this fic is a sequel, it can be read as a standalone work. Takes place right after the Welcome to the Madness skate. Title from Snow Patrol.

 

“That was amazing, wasn’t it? Way better than those pigs could ever do.” Yuri was still riding the performance high, stalking down the hall to the locker rooms with Otabek on his heels. “That program turned out _exactly_ how I wanted.”

He felt like he was full of soda water, effervescent. Pressurized. The building was too hot and Yuri too keyed up to bother putting the costume jacket on, so he carried it slung over one shoulder. Each stride sent a wash of cool air through the open back of his shirt.

“No one’ll be forgetting it anytime soon, certainly,” said Otabek. It was astonishing how calm he sounded, considering Yuri could feel his gaze like a point of fire between his shoulder blades.

That scorching stare had been a constant presence in Yuri’s awareness ever since Otabek leaned against the rink barrier, rolled his neck like a goddamn porn star, and stripped off Yuri’s glove with his _mouth._ Holy shit. He’d be thinking of that moment every time he jerked off for the next month. Or year.

It wasn’t like Yuri hadn’t noticed before, though. Otabek had been watching him with speculation is his eyes since they first saw each other across the hotel lobby Wednesday evening and the scrutiny had only escalated since, particularly after Yuri showed up at the club last night. And when Yuri asked — all right, _demanded_ — that Otabek join him in the exhibition skate, Otabek had given in without even the slightest hesitation, and his fevered expression during the performance left no room for doubt. No one was _that_ good an actor. Yuri was sure he’d read this right.

Ninety percent sure. He was ninety percent sure that, if all went according to the plan he'd hastily cobbled together out on the rink, he’d be getting his hands on Otabek in the next few minutes. The other ten percent was screeching about how he was plotting to lose his virginity in a locker room in Barcelona with a guy he’d known for three days.

It wasn’t even a plan, really, more a declaration of intent. Make intense eye contact at the end of the skate: check. Get Otabek into the locker room where they’d have at least a little privacy, keep him talking. The next few steps were vague on detail, but it ended with their hands down each other’s pants, or fucking Otabek’s gorgeous mouth, or— _something,_ Yuri was adaptable, and then (the important part) mutual orgasms.

“I'm counting on you to beat JJ at Four Continents,” said Yuri, instead of letting any of those thoughts out. _“And_ Katsuki. Don't let either of them take gold.”

“I'll do my best.”

Yuri shortened his stride until they were side by side. He could see Otabek watching him and it made anticipation fizz in his veins. “I still can't believe JJ got bronze.”

Otabek gave him an indulgent little smile, one Yuri’d seen a lot of in the last two days and which never failed to leave him slightly winded. “So you've said, but I don't begrudge him his win. He worked hard to get where he is.”

“It was bullshit scoring and you know it! He's an ass! Why are you defending him?”

“He's not that bad. Sure, he can be arrogant and oblivious, but he's not intolerable.”

“How can you possibly say that," said Yuri, staring at him flatly. Some things were inexcusable. Yuri might be hanging onto his virginity after all.

“We were rinkmates when I trained in Canada.” Otabek shrugged. “He has good taste in music.”

“…Please don’t tell me you actually _like_ that awful song he commissioned.”

“Theme of King JJ? No, that song’s an egotistical mess,” — Yuri sighed in relief at the words; he didn’t have to derail the plan, though he might have kept going anyway because there was poor taste in acquaintances and then there was the memory of Otabek’s mouth on his fingers and right now the latter solidly outweighed the former — “and I told him so when he first sent it to me. But he knows a lot of good bands.”

“Ah.” Everything was becoming clear. Yuri looked at Otabek knowingly. “You have Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Yuri,” said Otabek with a chuckle. He had a very nice laugh, deep, and it broke Yuri's name into throaty pieces when he spoke through it. “I don't have Stockholm Syndrome; that would require being held captive. I just know him better than you do. And there's the fact that he’s not _trying_ to piss me off. He teases you because he likes seeing you react.”

“He's a shithead and I hate him.”

“I'll be sure to tell him that next time I see him.” There was that indulgent smile again. Yuri shivered.

“I still say you were robbed, but I don't want to think about King Asshole anymore. I'd rather…” Leave the gate, step onto the rink. The ice was waiting. Yuri squared his shoulders and let his voice drop suggestively. “I'd rather spend the rest of the evening with you.”

Otabek regarded him for a long moment, heat sparking in his eyes. “I'd like that.”

Good. Now he just needed to lure Otabek into the lockers and… something. He'd think of it when he got there. The best plans left plenty of room for improvisation.

Yuri slowed at the entrance to the locker rooms and looked at Otabek over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he said, because he wanted to keep him talking and because it was true. “For, you know, the music, the— everything you did. I don’t think I said that yet.”

“My pleasure,” said Otabek. “It was a treat to watch you choreograph last night.”

“Me? Don't sell yourself short, Otabek. You helped a lot.”

Otabek huffed through his nose, refusing the credit, and changed the subject. “I still can't believe you followed me to the club, though. You’re a punk. Especially with that makeup.”

“Takes one to know one,” Yuri retorted. “Besides, you would have done the same thing in my position.”

Otabek pursed his lips and looked at him sidelong, like he wasn't sure if he should admit whatever he was thinking. But really, of course he should. Yuri wanted to know. The plan didn’t even matter at that moment; he just wanted inside Otabek’s head, wanted a deeper look at the guy who thought Yuri had the eyes of a soldier, who’d looked up to Yuri for years (and wasn't that a wild thought, someone like Otabek idolizing _him.)_

“…At least I had a fake ID when I still needed one,” said Otabek finally.

“Ha! Called it, you hypocrite.”

“I never said I wasn’t a punk, just that you are.”

Otabek smiled a different smile then, a more private one that lifted only one side of his mouth, and Yuri felt it like a fish hook in his gut, wrapped around something vital and tugging him forward until they stood almost chest to chest in the doorway.

“You were breathtaking today, Yuri,” said Otabek, soft. Yuri couldn’t look away. He'd reached the vague ‘wing it’ portion of the plan, which now included being hypnotized by Otabek's brown eyes. “You skated purely as yourself, your own story, and it was incredible.”

_Fuck._ Just… damn it all. This guy. He had a badass leather jacket and a motorcycle and the most earnest tone of voice Yuri had ever heard. Yuri could feel heat rising in his cheeks. Otabek was going to give him whiplash in the best possible way.

Part of Yuri wanted to gaze into his eyes forever, but he couldn't stand still for long; leftover adrenaline had him shaky and overcharged. He needed to _move._ He needed to get to the lockers, needed to throw down his jacket and unlace his skates and grand jeté down the length of the room. He needed to slam Otabek against a wall with his body.

The last option was the most tempting. Otabek, with his finger guns and his piercing eyes and his once-perfect undercut mussed from a full afternoon of skating, might disappear if Yuri didn't do something to pin him down. He was like a mirage. What if Yuri made him up?

No, if Yuri made him up he wouldn’t be so damn cheesy. He must be real.

Yuri stepped past Otabek, pushed through the door, and started toward the lockers, swaying his hips because the plan might be vague but it was still a _plan_ and it never hurt to have some added insurance. He made sure he was angled just right to show off his ass before bending forward to remove his skates. Was that too much? It was probably too much, but Yuri didn’t believe in doing things halfway. Besides, Otabek already thought he was cool. He had wiggle room.

Otabek let the door fall shut behind himself and suddenly he was very close.

Everything seemed slightly unreal, a little left of the normal universe that held mundane things like plane tickets and tangled earbuds. Yuri was a senior gold medalist now. They were in a different time zone and another world and Otabek kept _staring._ Yuri was more than halfway hard in his tight black pants, his skin tingling with the sense memory of the icy rink air sluicing over his bare chest when he did that slide, remembering the way Otabek's eyes burned into him through the rest of the gala.

The way they still burned.

“Your eyeliner is smeared,” murmured Otabek from far too close, or not close enough, when Yuri straightened.

“It’s a smoky eye, that’s what it’s supposed to look like.”

“No, it’s…” He brushed his thumb along Yuri’s temple and Yuri’s heartbeat tripped over the contact. “I don’t think it’s supposed to reach your hairline.”

“Fuck the eyeliner. Otabek—” Yuri dragged him in by the open edges of his jacket, and the vestiges of the plan succumbed to Yuri's impatience. Otabek was touching him, things were heading in the proper direction, and Yuri didn't need to think anymore, but if something didn’t happen in the next five seconds he was going to fucking explode.

Otabek sank to his knees.

Yuri heard a gasp, which, he realized a handful of frozen moments later when his lungs started to burn, was the last time he took a breath. Yes. _Hell_ yes. Nevermind pinning Otabek down — Yuri was the one pinned, paralyzed and suddenly, achingly hard under the weight of that sharp brown gaze. Otabek wasn't speculative now, he was _predatory._ Yuri had to remind himself to inhale again.

He might die from this, but holy shit, he would enjoy the hell out of it. What a way to go. The grin he could feel spreading across his face was downright feral, and Otabek smiled in return, a small, sultry thing that would look at home on a lion who’d just spotted an injured gazelle.

That made Yuri the gazelle. Under normal circumstances, Yuri would recast them in his head immediately, but here? Now? Bring on the lions. Yuri wanted to be _devoured._

He couldn't stop thinking about how Otabek’s teeth had closed over his finger out on the ice. He wanted to feel it everywhere.

Otabek wrapped his warm hands around Yuri’s hips and brushed his thumbs up under the loose hem of Yuri’s shirt to press into the skin over his hipbones and oh, just two little points of contact and Yuri was already falling apart, unable to help the groan that escaped him. Fuck. This gazelle didn’t put up much of a fight, did he? But Yuri didn’t care, as long as Otabek kept touching him. It was like fire, like a live wire sparking against him.

Yuri’s legs trembled when Otabek skated his hands up his ribs, fingers slipping over bone and muscle as they rucked his loose shirt up almost to his collarbones. Once Yuri’s chest was bared to the locker room air, Otabek dropped his forehead to Yuri’s sternum. Yuri could hardly breathe. His lungs clenched. His knees turned watery and unstable. The leather of Otabek’s fingerless gloves was body-warm, but the texture was tantalizingly distinct where it traced across Yuri’s ribs, and he could feel the seams as lines of static tingling through his skin.

Every centimeter of him felt electric and hypersensitized. Otabek’s hair ought to tickle — Yuri was usually ticklish across his chest (and Potya’d certainly gotten him enough times with her tail for him to know) — but right now the short strands feathering across his skin only wound him tighter. Yuri buried his hands in them and Otabek groaned.

He was so goddamn hard he was starting to worry about the integrity of his pants.

He tried to speak, maybe ask what Otabek planned to do to him, but he’d barely sucked in the air for it when Otabek shifted again to puff heated breath over Yuri’s left nipple, and the only sound Yuri could make was, _“Ngk.”_

Otabek glanced up through his dark hair. Holding Yuri’s gaze, he gradually, deliberately leaned closer, his tongue just peeking over his full bottom lip.

Yuri was about to die. He’d known Otabek Altin for three fucking days and this guy was going to _kill_ him. The only thing keeping him from collapsing into the locker room wall behind him was the iron grip Otabek had on his ribcage. He couldn’t even blink, because blinking meant breaking this scorching eye contact and that might kill him, too.

Otabek’s mouth was bare millimeters away from him, so close that Yuri could feel the heat radiating from his skin, and he’d never been so viscerally aware of how hard his nipples could get before. It was torture. Every tiny breath, every minuscule current of air shot laser pulses of sensation along his nerves. He probably looked a mess, like some sort of terrifying apparition, wide-eyed, sweaty, and still in his exhibition makeup, but _mother of fuck._

They hadn’t even kissed yet. This was better.

When Otabek finally got his tongue on Yuri’s nipple, Yuri shouted. He didn’t care who heard. Fucking _hell._ Otabek was a wizard. An incubus. He was going to make Yuri come in his pants in about two seconds with just his _mouth._ Yuri clutched Otabek’s head closer with shaking hands that likely pulled too hard at his hair, but Yuri couldn’t quite bring himself to care — he was tangled in the electrifying sensation of Otabek’s tongue curling, hot and intoxicating, over the tightened knot of nerve endings on his chest. He had no idea nipples could feel this good.

Then Otabek set his teeth around the hardened tip and tugged, and Yuri’s knees really did give out. Otabek followed him down to the floor. Yuri ended up slumped halfway-upright against the wall with Otabek leaning into him, one arm braced next to Yuri’s head and the other still possessive on his waist with Yuri’s hands making an utter mess of his hair.

Yuri stared at him, dazed. Otabek’s mouth was so _red,_ lips parted slightly where they hovered above Yuri’s chest. He wanted—

Without thought, his hand slid down Otabek’s jaw until his thumb rested on that temptingly full lower lip. What he wanted was to feel the heat of Otabek's mouth again. His thumb pressed into the flesh, slipping sideways and distorting the perfect line of Otabek’s lip until Otabek caught it with his teeth. _Fuck._ Then his tongue made an appearance, wet, slippery, drawing Yuri’s thumb in further until Otabek could close his mouth around it and suck, and Yuri made a noise he might have been embarrassed about had he any brain cells to spare. He was breathing harder than even in the middle of his performance, heartbeat pounding in his ears. His hips jerked up against the air in a fruitless search for friction.

Otabek’s eyes closed as he devoted himself to the task of rendering Yuri incoherent with his mouth and all Yuri could think was, _thank fuck,_ because if he’d had to hold Otabek’s gaze while he traced the whorls of Yuri’s thumbprint with his tongue then Yuri would definitely be making a mess of his pants. Even without those intense amber eyes on him, Yuri was hanging onto his — not composure but at least some semblance of _sanity_ — by the barest of threads.

Finally, too soon, with a scrape of teeth that nudged Yuri another centimeter nearer to orgasm, Otabek released Yuri’s thumb and opened his eyes. Heat, dry lightning. A supercell was building in Yuri and the hunger in Otabek’s eyes only spurred it on.

Otabek’s fingers tightened on Yuri’s waist, then wandered up to brush over the nipple his mouth had so thoroughly attended, and Yuri choked on the sensation. How did something so simple feel so amazing? Otabek pinched, rolled it between his fingers, skimmed the length of his thumb along it so that the edge of his glove caught the hardened tip and scraped. It was almost as good as coming — and fuck, he might actually come if Otabek kept this up. Yuri could feel every touch in his dick, an electric arc from chest to balls. He moaned, gripping Otabek by the hair again and dragging him up, closer, until only a thin sliver of space separated their noses and Otabek filled his field of view, framed by mussed hair with his shirt buttery-smooth on the exposed skin of Yuri’s stomach, the zippered edges of his leather jacket tickling Yuri’s ribs. He was so goddamn gorgeous. It was almost too much. Yuri had to shut his eyes against it.

“Yuri.”

He couldn’t keep them closed, though, when Otabek said his name like that.

A dark blush spread across Otabek’s face but his eyes were unwavering, infinitely patient in pursuit of his prey. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

“Like you said,” whispered Yuri, half out of his mind, “there’s only one answer.”

He yanked Otabek closer and sealed their mouths together, and Otabek fucking _pounced,_ pinning Yuri to the wall with both hands. His lips slid wetly over Yuri’s, hot and possessive, parting so he could lick into Yuri’s mouth, and it was like winning gold all over again, the rush of climbing to the very top of the podium, the savage glee of triumph. Yuri moaned and angled his head so he could taste Otabek deeper, feeling sparks and flame spreading with every brush of their tongues.

Otabek’s fingers clenched on his shoulders and his weight pressed in on Yuri’s chest, holding him up against the wall, and that contact was the only thing keeping Yuri from vaporizing. Yuri wanted more. He never wanted to stop, he wanted to keep Otabek’s mouth on him for the rest of eternity. He dropped one hand to the back of Otabek’s neck and searched for his body with the other, trying to find him by touch alone because his eyes wouldn’t open against the force of Otabek kissing him into the tile. When he finally managed to close his fingers around Otabek’s hip, Otabek made a wounded sound, half-muffled in Yuri’s lips.

“Yuri—”

Yuri yanked until Otabek fell over him, heavy and uncontrolled. Some instinct in him wanted to be smothered, wanted Otabek’s body weighing him down, wanted to fight against that weight and feel Otabek match him until they were both gasping. Then Otabek rocked his hips on Yuri’s thigh and even the pressure of his hands couldn’t keep Yuri still.

That was Otabek’s dick pressing against his leg. He was hard and he was _huge_ and Yuri couldn’t process anything beyond a dark, possessive satisfaction. Otabek — supremely cool Otabek who DJ’d and rode motorcycles and powered through his skating programs on sheer determination, who was so many things Yuri wanted to be — was so turned on he was shaking under Yuri’s hands and rutting on his leg, and Yuri was responsible.

He’d had it all wrong before. _Pleasure_ was the gazelle. Yuri was another lion, and he and Otabek were on the hunt.

“Otabek— _fuck,_ come on, I need—”

“Yes—”

Yuri twisted sideways, away from the wall so he could lay flat on the floor, and dragged Otabek with him. It felt so good to have Otabek over him like this, pressed together from chests to knees, their legs tangled together. He hardly noticed the hard tile of the floor; Otabek kept one hand behind his head, lifting him up to kiss him again, and their mingled groans of pleasure echoed from the lockers.

They were making a hell of a lot of noise and it didn’t matter, not when Otabek drew his shirt up and pinched his nipple again. Yuri arched into it, hissing through his teeth, then grabbed Otabek’s ass in retaliation and squeezed all that firm muscle. A good move: Otabek dropped his head into Yuri’s neck with a moan and showered his shoulder with frantic kisses that lit up Yuri’s nerves like sparklers, rocking his hips back into Yuri’s hands and down to grind his cock along Yuri’s.

Fuck, Otabek really was hung. No wonder they called him the Hero of Kazakhstan. Was _everything_ about him larger than life?

Not that Yuri was complaining. Far from it.

“Yuri, you are—” Otabek cut himself off with a groan as Yuri rubbed his thigh up into him. “You are extraordinary, you drive me _crazy._ This whole weekend has been torture. Ah, _please,”_ he added when Yuri pulled his hips down. Their cocks slid against each other and Yuri buried his groan in Otabek’s skin.

“I drive _you_ crazy, no, have you _seen_ you?” Yuri panted. “Fuck, Otabek, you’re like a wet dream.” Otabek moaned, and Yuri couldn’t tell if it was appreciative or mortified but he didn’t care because Otabek needed to hear this. Yuri needed to make him understand just how insane he was. “You show up on your— ah, _yes,_ don’t stop _—_ on your motorcycle, all stoic and shit, and steal me away to watch a fucking _sunset._ Who does that? It’s— _hnn—_ it’s unfair.” Yuri had to stop and gasp for a moment, because Otabek had caught the tendon in the side of Yuri’s neck between his teeth and was sucking appreciatively. “You’re very distracting.”

Otabek released Yuri’s neck and kissed a line up to his ear. “That’s intentional.”

“I’m, ah, trying to tell you about how you’ve been killing me for days.”

“Sorry.” Otabek didn’t sound sorry in the slightest, his voice warm and breathless and full of promise. “Let me make it up to you?” He punctuated the question with another roll of his hips and slipped three fingers into Yuri’s pants. Yuri’s brain fuzzed with high-voltage pleasure. He made a noise that was almost entirely consonants.

“Was that a yes?”

“Hnng. Fuck you.”

“That's the idea, yeah.” Otabek licked the edge of his jaw. Yuri caught his neck and hauled him into a messy, thorough kiss, determined to deprive him of speech. He couldn’t get enough of the taste of Otabek’s mouth, the way Otabek’s lips worked over his, the conflagration of lust burning his whole body when Otabek started working Yuri's waistband down.

“Hold on, let me take off the gloves.” Otabek started to pull his hand away but Yuri caught his wrist before he got far.

“No, leave them— _fuck,_ leave them on, I don't care, just— don't stop touching me.” Yuri did care, actually. The contrast of leather and skin was like nothing he’d ever felt before and if it disappeared Yuri might collapse into a black hole of want. He scrambled to shove down his pants and dance belt, but when he seemed to be hindering Otabek rather than helping, grabbed at Otabek’s fly instead and yanked clumsily.

Otabek finally got the clothing out of the way, and then his seeking fingertips brushed the side of Yuri’s cock and Yuri made a ridiculous sound, his back curling and hips bucking involuntarily, pushing into Otabek’s hand. Fucking hell. He was going to _die._ Otabek wrapped his fingers around the shaft, the smooth palm of his glove and the clever play of his thumb just under the head lighting up every nerve ending in Yuri’s body.

Yuri shivered and gasped, overwhelmed. It felt like Otabek was sinking claws and teeth into him, snagging the hide of a leaping pleasure Yuri had hunted before and never been able to capture on his own.

“That feels— fuck, I didn’t know it could feel like—”

Above him, Otabek startled. “Yuri.” He’d stopped moving his hand, which ought to be illegal. A loud, needy whine found its way out of Yuri’s throat; when he ruled the world, he’d make a decree that Otabek was never allowed to not be touching him, ever. “Is this… your first time?”

Oh, fuck that. Otabek didn’t get to be all concerned about it.

“Does it matter?” he asked, direct challenge in the stare he leveled at Otabek even though he couldn’t finish saying three words without panting.

“No, just— Yuri—” and oh. Oh. That was not _concern._ Otabek’s eyes were wild under the fringe of hair shading them, but Yuri only had a brief view before Otabek fastened his mouth to Yuri’s, his fingers tightening again and beginning to stroke. “Let me,” he mumbled around Yuri’s lip, desperate, “let me. Yuri. Please.”

“Yes,” said Yuri, and he didn’t even know what Otabek was asking but the answer was still, “yes, anything, just _keep going.”_

Otabek’s stubborn zipper finally gave way under Yuri’s fingers and he twisted until he could get his hand down to touch, wrist pinned by elastic and fingers splayed along the hard length of Otabek’s cock. Damn, it was even bigger than Yuri had thought — he should be required to declare that weapon at customs.

Then Otabek ran the pads of his fingers up the underside of Yuri’s cock, pressing hard, and Yuri lost track of what his own hands were doing as a line of fire shot up his spine. It was _so fucking good._ His voice escaped control; he could hear the high-pitched cries he was sobbing into Otabek’s mouth but he felt almost entirely disconnected from them, far away in a world where the only thing that mattered was the relentless pumping of Otabek's fist on his cock. He retained just enough awareness to catch the satisfied expression stealing over Otabek’s features before the building pressure forced his eyes shut.

He came violently, arching off the floor in shocked bliss as Otabek clawed his orgasm out of him and eviscerated it. His mind was seared clean and empty.

Gradually, the white-hot pleasure cooled, his breathing slowed, and the world beyond his own head rose from the tatters of his concentration and started to make sense again.

The first thing he noticed was Otabek whimpering in his ear. His voice was reedy, broken, and his fingers curled around Yuri’s lax ones, jerking his own cock in rapid strokes. He’d pushed his underwear down at some point during Yuri’s insensate lolling, so his (fucking _stunning)_ cock was bare save for their hands tangled around it. Yuri flexed his fingers in Otabek's grip and was rewarded with the most breathtaking sound he’d ever heard: Otabek moaning his name in a helpless, gasping whine. It made his spent cock twitch. He was already getting hard again just _listening_ to Otabek falling apart.

Yuri planted one shoulder and flipped them, and Otabek made an even better sound.

Spread out on the tile like this, Otabek looked like every lustful daydream Yuri’d ever had, his jacket falling open and his nipples hard under his white shirt, his still-gloved hand trapping Yuri’s fingers and working over his cock, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth kiss-swollen and inviting, his free hand twisting in Yuri’s shirt and pulling him down. Yuri watched their joined hands stroking and noticed a smear of translucent white on the black leather — that was _his come_ on Otabek’s glove.

Was this what a heart attack felt like? Holy shit. Yuri had to kiss him right that very second, had to get his tongue on Otabek’s and taste it from the source when Otabek moaned his name again.

“I need— Yuri—”

Yuri tightened his grip, and Otabek choked on air and fucked into his hand, muscles flexing under Yuri’s weight. He was magnificent like this, head thrown back, neck arching, thrashing like he was trying to deny his own pleasure. Yuri wanted to _shatter_ him. He wrenched him in by the hair and bit at his mouth, and when Otabek keened in the back of his throat, too tightly wound to kiss back, Yuri moved down to cover his windpipe with his teeth.

Otabek’s breath caught, he went still and silent for a frozen moment, and then he was coming, shaking, crying out, his release spilling hot over Yuri’s fingers.

Yuri was so caught up in Otabek’s pleasure that it felt like _he’d_ come again. So, _so_ good, fuck. He collapsed onto Otabek’s chest, his arm twisted under him and his hand limp around Otabek’s cock, and tried to remember what it felt like to breathe without gasping.

After a long period of dizzy floating, he felt a hand in his hair, and tilted his head up. Otabek was watching him with trepidatious hope, lips curved in something a little too thin to be a smile.

None of that. If anyone should be nervous, it was Yuri — he’d just had his first handjob, after all, on a locker room floor of all places — and he wasn’t nervous, so why was Otabek?

He’d made Otabek come. Fuck, he’d _made Otabek come._ Yuri was a _sex god._ He smiled, hitched his arm tighter where it wound around Otabek’s shoulder, and turned to press a kiss into his collarbone. Then the side of his neck, the edge of his jaw, and by the time he reached his mouth, Otabek was smiling, too, properly this time. Yuri kissed that smile, lightly at first, just a press of lips, and then harder, longer, until he had Otabek’s tongue wrapped around his own and their mouths made wet, slick sounds when their lips moved.

“When— mmm— when can we do that again?” asked Yuri, swiveling his hips down. “Now? Say now.” Yuri was already half-hard and Otabek’s cock stirred against him as he moved, which was very gratifying and said good things about his chances.

Otabek chuckled. “We’re still in the locker room, Yuri.”

“So?”

A loud bark of laughter filtered in from the hallway outside and made Otabek’s point for him, and yeah, okay. Public. Yuri didn’t want to share him with anyone else.

“Besides,” Otabek continued, “we’re supposed to go to the banquet.”

“Who cares about the banquet? I told you, I want to stay with you.”

Otabek tucked Yuri’s hair behind his ear, tracing the curve of it with gentle fingers, and Yuri leaned into the contact. “We’ll both be there. And everyone will be expecting the gold medalist. What would your coaches say if you skipped out?”

“That you’re a bad influence,” answered Yuri promptly.

“Am I not?”

“No, you’re the best influence.” Yuri dropped his head onto Otabek’s shoulder. “Take me out on your motorcycle again.”

“Maybe later.” Otabek’s voice thrummed in his chest where Yuri’s ear pressed against it, like a cat’s purr. “You may not care about the banquet, but I do. Come on.”

At the urging of Otabek’s hands on his shoulders, Yuri reluctantly sat up, only to find that they’d left a wet, milky mess congealing on his new shirt. “Ha. Let’s hope that washes out. When do we have to be there again?”

Otabek retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket. “…Shit.”

“Which means ‘now’?”

“Which means we should’ve been changed ten minutes ago. How fast can you get ready?”

Yuri smirked. “Faster than you.”

Otabek quirked an eyebrow at the challenge, and then they were off, racing each other in the showers, throwing on the warm-up clothes stashed in their lockers, running across the street to the hotel (Otabek refused to run, which Yuri thought was complete bullshit, especially since Otabek’s — threatening, unfairly hot — stride still let him beat Yuri to the front doors somehow) and tussling over the elevator buttons so they could retrieve their banquet clothes from their rooms.

By some tremendous stroke of luck, none of Yuri’s overeager fans were lying in wait. They had the lobby to themselves. And if Yuri kept his hands on Otabek a little too long as they waited for the elevator to arrive, the front desk clerk wasn’t paying enough attention to say anything, and the warm look in Otabek’s eyes was worth it anyway.

 

 


End file.
